Underprivileged Racehorses
by Captain Fantastic
Summary: This is a post-modern short story I wrote using the characters of some of my reviewers. It's a comedy about three females, one reporter, and a mostly ruined charity ball.


_A note from the author regarding her work: _

_Dear reader:_

_I'm quite pleased with this. I've wanted for some time to write a post-modern short story, and have finally achieved thus, with the help of ElvishKiwi, ElvishKiwi's Venerated Ancestor, and InChrist-Billios. (This story's three leading ladies are their creations--thus making it a fanfiction!) This work is inspired heavily by the voice of such satirists as Mark Twain, Douglas Adams, and Kurt Vonnegut—I apologize if it isn't to your taste, but such is life. If you are unhappy with the beginning, or ending, or my process of reaching the ending from the beginning, then I also apologize. In my humble opinion, the post-modern story is more about all the little pieces, rather than the story as a whole. I'm immensely pleased with my little pieces, and I hope you can enjoy them as well. Happy reading._

* * *

To say that the Diamond Charity Ball last Tuesday was utterly and completely ruined would be a vast overstatement. It was only mostly ruined, and even that statement depends on your point of view. Only eight of the fifty guests and one disgruntled reporter deemed it a failure. Charles and Margaret Diamond, the hosts of the annual ball, eventually came to see the chain of upheavals throughout their precious fundraiser as redeeming factors—hundreds of new patrons sprang from the woodwork upon reading news coverage of the evening. Subsequently, the Hilda P. Chatton Foundation for Underprivileged Race Horses, this year's charity cause, was pleased with the results of the night.

But this is not a story about the Diamonds, Hilda P. Chatton, or even underprivileged race horses. It is about the slightly ruined charity ball and the three people responsible for the mishaps. Perhaps some introductions are in order.

I'll begin with Hadassah Piripi, because according to the newspaper article she is the chief cause of the catastrophe. First, let me caution you to not judge Hadassah. She was born to be an instigator, and that is not her fault. A New Zealander of mixed Maori, Portuguese, Scottish, English, and Jewish descent, it was never in her interest to be just another party guest. In fact, she was not technically a guest at all, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

If you want to judge someone, judge the newspaper reporter who deemed her the "Charity Crasher" in his blazing article. His name is Rick and he's been on the edge of retirement for eighteen years due to a bad case of a terrible life. Four wives and a fiancé left him in the course of fourteen years, which is the reason for the outspoken hatred and paranoia towards women that bleeds into all of his writing. (Apparently, womankind as a whole is responsible for both World Wars, the assassination of Kennedy, the oil crisis, a botched Mars landing that was covered up, and the fire on 2nd Street last April.)

Even though Hadassah never started a World War, Rick targeted her because she is part Maori, part Portuguese, part Scottish, part English, part Jewish. His second and fourth wives were both Jewish. His first was English. His third was Puerto Rican (close enough to Portuguese in his opinion). His former fiancé was actually Canadian, but Rick considered that a mere fluke in the otherwise divine sign that his time for revenge had come. He hammered Hadassah's good name to the ground in his article, certain to mention several times that her non-American heritage was certainly to blame. (Needless to say, the article was fiercely revised by the editor before it hit print and Rick is now facing a hearing with the newspaper's in-house conduct review board due to his overt sexist and racist tendencies.)

Enough about Hadassah and her recently gained nemesis. The introductions must progress.

The fact that one of the now infamous Charity Crashers was an invited guest caused a lot of buzz in the social circles. A new resolution was actually reached by the Diamond Charity Ball planning committee during an emergency meeting to start screening guest lists more closely, perhaps to even require a mandatory interview beforehand in order to weed out improper or unpredictable guests. The planning committee liked things to be predictable.

But just as Hadassah was born to be an instigator, Glinda Barbara Scotch was born to be unpredictable. At a very young age, upon discovering that her nickname of 'Glib' was very unorthodox, Glinda decided that it would be in her best interest to remain as distant from orthodoxy as possible. With a nickname like Glib, no one expected otherwise and she was able to enrich her life with several diverse hobbies and live every day with a refined sense of the overdramatic. Her parents often despaired in her, very vocally, and tried at every turn to bring her into the orthodoxy of high society. This is the reason that Glinda Barbara Scotch was at the Diamond Charity Ball.

Also at the charity ball was Gabrielle Stuart. She was not a guest. This is not to say that she was not invited. She was invited, just as she has been every year, by her employer Divinely Delicious Catering. Gabrielle is a very good cook, but rather tired of the catering gig. This charity ball will be her three hundredth time to prepare her specialty dish—the one with the foreign name that's decorated with little sprigs of green. She considered mentioning that to Don, the head chef, in hopes of a raise or at the very least a night off, but she decided against it. Don didn't really like her so much ever since last year, when Margaret Diamond complimented her lemon squares more than his blueberry tarts.

Gabrielle was definitely tired of the catering gig, because she was not born to strive for mediocrity. Despite the acclaim of her cooking, Gabrielle did not consider lemon squares to be anything but a piece of glorified mediocrity. Perhaps this was the reason she allowed herself to become associated with Hadassah on the Tuesday night of this year's charity ball—somehow in the midst of planet earth's sound and fury, Hadassah had found a piece of exceptionality. Though Gabrielle didn't know it as she prepared lemon squares before the party, her decisions on that Tuesday night would elevate her to the same exceptional company.

_Tuesday, 7:30 p.m. Guests are arriving, fashionably late. _

Upon arriving at the hotel where the Diamond Charity Ball was being held, Glib found herself immediately immersed in the beloved high society of her parents.

"Hello, I'm Lucille, terribly nice to meet you," said a girl about her own age that had been stalking her for the past eight minutes, probably trying to get up the nerve to say hello.

"I'm Glib." She liked being simple. It made it more surprising when she decided to do something drastic.

"Is that…you're real name?" Lucille asked, sounding alarmed.

"No, but it's what I go by."

"What's your real name though?"

"Glinda."

"Like the good witch?"

"Precisely."

"I'll call you Glib."

"Alright."

It was an entirely pointless conversation. Lucille wandered away eight seconds later, and was not seen for the rest of the night. Over the course of five more pointless conversations, Glib grew tired of being simple and decided to do something drastic. She ordered some champagne from a waitress, even though she was too young to drink and even though she detested alcohol, and then acted insulted when the waitress politely refused to bring her one unless Glib showed some ID. The exchange sparked a friendly debate with the patrons around her about the legal drinking age, and Glib was happy. She enjoyed listening to debates and evaluating people according to their responses. For instance, Mr. Martin, maybe thirty, was probably married to a much younger woman, due to his ecstatic defending of the younger population. Mrs. Egley probably had a drunk husband at home and a rebellious teenager skulking in a club somewhere, due to her blatant damnations of all things alcoholic.

Neither Mr. Martin nor Mrs. Egley is important in this particular narrative. I merely wish to explain to you the workings of Glib's mind. She is a quiet girl, and you might find it difficult to get to know her otherwise.

Meanwhile, Gabrielle, in the kitchen, had just finished arranging her lemon squares on a platter.

"Where's Joan?" she asked Don. The catering company always hired three waitresses to serve, so the cooking staff could focus in the kitchens.

"Sorry, Gabby. I gave Joan the night off, looks like your multi-tasking tonight."

Gabrielle sighed for three reasons. One, she hated 'Gabby'--the precise reason Don called her that. Two, Don had been giving Joan a lot of nights off lately, probably because he enjoyed giving Gabrielle more work or maybe because he and Joan had recently began dating. Three, Gabrielle hated being a waitress more than being a caterer. She didn't like being around the general idiocy of charity balls. To her, they were pointless. Just give the money to the koala bears or owls or race horses, or whatever animal the Diamonds decided to support this season. Why all the fuss about planning committees and lemon squares?

"You know, Don," she said with an unfeeling smile as she pulled off her apron and dusted off her white collared shirt. "I admire your courage."

"Eh. What's that?" he asked, squinting at her over the cup of vanilla he was measuring.

Gabrielle shrugged.

"It's just that, ever since the FPP passed the new law about dating relationships in the workplace, I figured most people would shy away from that kind of thing. The fact that you like Joan enough to risk your job is really admirable."

Don frowned. Gabrielle grabbed her tray and walked out. She wasn't sure if there even was such a thing as the FPP and she knew such a law would never pass, but she also knew that Don was already cheating on Joan and the sooner they broke up, the sooner that she could stop this waitress nonsense. Joan was a nice lady, and deserved better. Don was a stubborn jerk and a childish idiot. Gabrielle enjoyed experimenting with his stupidity on occasion. It was a nice reprieve from her otherwise mediocre job.

As a side note, the imaginary FPP, Don the head chef, and Don's brief stint with Joan the waitress are not important in this narrative either. (Interestingly, Joan dumped Don first. She was a smart woman and had just finished a self-help class about the dangers of dating men with IQs substantially lower than your own.) I simply want you to understand Gabrielle, her hatred of the nickname Gabby, and her quick wit that is sometimes hidden under layers of flour and lemon flavoring.

_Tuesday, 8:45 p.m. The party progresses._

The night proceeded in a wholly unexceptional manner, with Glib listening to debates and with Gabrielle serving lemon squares to guests who largely ignored her. Finally, at the stroke of 8:46, something happened that broke through the thick layer of pointless conversations in the ballroom.

A ten meter long Winebago RV slammed into the big oak tree outside.

The hotel manager ran out immediately, anxious and distraught, not at any potential injuries to the passengers of the Winebago, but at the barely detectable injury to his oak tree. In fact, when a slightly dazed Hadassah tumbled out of the driver's side, tapped him on the shoulder, and asked for a glass of water and maybe a phone, the manager (who's name is, interestingly enough, Don) didn't even notice her.

"Hi, excuse me, hi. I was just in an accident. The tree is fine," Hadassah said when she regained her senses enough to realize that her wellbeing was being temporarily ignored for the sake of a tree.

Don the manager looked at her irritably.

"Hodge-podge. My tree is ruined. Look there! Just look! You see?"

Hadassah leaned forward politely and looked past the mangled hood of her RV to the stripped bark.

"You're right," she confirmed. "This is a catastrophe." She was perfectly serious. She often was, about such things. It wasn't in her nature to mock the obsessions of strange men with trees.

For Don the manager, it was a catastrophe. His great-grandfather had planted this oak, at the same time he founded the hotel. It was a bit of a family heirloom. Now the tree was scarred. He wiped away a tear and ran back inside to make the appropriate calls. First to his father, who would be desolate, then to a towing company that could get the blasted Winebago off his precious oak.

Hadassah stood around awkwardly for a few seconds, assessed the damage to her RV for a few more seconds, and then decided to go inside and see if there was anything interesting indoors. She was the type to take adventure as it came, even in the most unlikely of places. After the incident with the cow and the can of peaches in Missouri last month, she was confident that she was prepared for anything this posh hotel could throw at her.

Missouri cows, peaches, and Winebagos are not important in this story. However, the oak tree is exceedingly important, and so is Hadassah's lemon-yellow scarf that blew into its highest branches when she tumbled out of the driver's seat.

_Tuesday, 9:08 p.m. _

Hadassah found herself in the hotel ballroom, which was glittering with wealthy patrons, champagne glasses, and glossy photos of underprivileged race horses. There was a table with a chocolate fountain, another table with a cheese fountain, a bar in the corner, and three waitresses scurrying through the room with trays, trying to keep everyone happy. Everyone certainly looked happy. Hadassah decided that the harried-looking waitresses needed to be told that their job so far was a success. You see, Hadassah knows many, many waitresses. She and her family stop at diners a lot in their travels. Hadassah enjoys getting to know the fine people of the service industry; they always have the best stories to tell.

Hadassah has nine girls, one boy, and one husband. It's in her best interest to like people, since she spends most of her time surrounded by them in two Winebagos. Currently, her life has been a bit lonely, since her husband and kids are one and a half continents away. She was actually on the long journey home when the oak jumped out in front of the RV.

"Excuse me," she tapped a waitress on the arm. The girl turned and looked at her expectantly, one eyebrow cocked slightly over a brown eye. She was probably expecting to receive a drink order. "I just wanted to tell you that you're doing a great job," Hadassah said. She considered giving a thumbs up, but that seemed a little over the top in the ritzy atmosphere.

The girl's lower jaw dropped the tiniest bit and her other eyebrow shot halfway up her forehead.

"You're not a guest here, are you?" she asked, looking Hadassah over. "And thanks," she added quickly, as an afterthought.

To Gabrielle, the strangely nice woman was the most bizarre spectacle she'd seen in a while. Her long black hair fell down her back and was threaded with just enough silver to give her a look of hidden wisdom. Her clothes were a dead giveaway if she had been hoping to blend in. The ballroom was full of tuxedos and evening gowns. The woman's clothes, though decent enough, were slightly wrinkled and definitely not up to par with the evening attire. She looked as if she had been traveling.

"No, not a guest," the woman answered cheerfully. "I own the Winebago parked out front."

"The one that crashed?"

"That's the one. Word sure spreads fast. I'm Hadassah, by the way."

"Gabrielle. You might want to go talk to Don (she was, of course, referring to Don the manager). I heard he was trying to get the RV towed."

"That's fine. It's not going to drive anywhere for a while."

"Bad parking spot, eh?"

Hadassah blinked at the quip and laughed shortly.

"I guess so. So what are you doing here?"

"I'm working." Gabrielle glanced around the room, suddenly realizing that she wasn't working at all. She was chatting with a strange woman named Hadassah who had just stumbled upon this shindig.

"Right, but why? Is it a side job? Are you working your way through college? Do you hope to own a catering business one day? Maybe you're saving up to--" Hadassah caught herself and laughed again. "Sorry, I get a little carried away. Just tell me your story."

Gabrielle was a little caught off guard.

"My story?"

"I like listening to people. It's a hobby of mine. I have ten children, so I get lots of practice."

"Ten kids and a Winebago? Sounds crowded."

"Well there are two Winebagos."

"What happened to the other one? Another tree?"

"Well actually, there was this cow and this can of peaches…long story."

"I'll bet."

The conversation progressed from there. While both Gabrielle and Hadassah both have life stories worth telling, this particular story is not about each of them, but rather both of them together and what happened when Glib, a few clumps of people away, set her club soda on the edge of the chocolate fondue table. She was animatedly trying to explain to Mr. Martin the finer points of a front pike somersault (gymnastics was one of the diverse hobbies that had enriched her life through the years).

After Mr. Martin conceded the point (that front pike somersaults in gymnastics are more difficult than Polish hammers in wrestling), Glib went to try the cheese fondue across the room. The club soda remained on the edge of the table, entirely innocent and sinister all at once.

If Rick the reporter had seen Glib leave the glass on the table, he might have chosen to write his scathing article about her—the table turned out to be a very poor location for that glass of club soda. But I'm getting ahead of myself yet again. Rick was too busy trying to find a waitress to notice glasses of club soda on tables. He'd had one martini too many that night, and needed some vodka to clear his head.

"Miss," he heaved exasperatedly when he'd found a waitress. "Miss, I need vodka."

Gabrielle raised her eyebrow at the man tugging on her sleeve. She had been in a very intelligent conversation with Hadassah and resented being interrupted to do her job. Why couldn't he just go to the perfectly good bar and order one himself?

"I'll need to see some ID," she said pointedly.

"ID?" he practically bawled. "Do I look like a kid to you?"

In fact, to Gabrielle, he looked very much like a forty-year old man. A drunk forty-year old man. She hoped that he might be dissuaded from his mission for more alcohol if she persisted in asking for ID.

"Sorry, sir. It's policy," she said with a helpless shrug of her shoulders.

"I don't have any on me!"

"Sorry."

At this time, I'd like to point out that earlier that week Don the hotel manager had hired an exterminator to come to the ballroom. The hotel was having a problem with roaches. The exterminator came, went, charged a hefty bill, and all of this would be moot except that David the exterminator was getting married in two days and his head was not quite on his work. I mention all of this so that you aren't surprised when I tell you about the roach that found itself next to the chocolate fountain. This insect is perhaps the most important character in the story, for he is the real instigator and the true Charity Crasher. If the world were just and fair and if such catastrophes as this year's Diamond Charity Ball could be feasibly blamed on a cockroach, he would have been the true subject of Rick the reporter's newspaper article.

For the sake of clarity, let me explain what happened next:

Hadassah, while Gabrielle was having her exchange with Rick, decided that the chocolate fountain looked particularly interesting. She went over and dipped a skewered strawberry under the cascading chocolate, fascinated by the glistening brown river. Meanwhile, Rosa the waitress came over to clear away the abandoned club soda. Had Hadassah's warning not been garbled by a mouthful of chocolate and strawberry, Rosa might not have picked up the glass. But she did, and the second the clinging cockroach's feelers tickled her hand, she looked down and let out a scream that came close to shattering the windows. The glass of club soda flew a considerable distance (Rosa was a star softball player in high school) and shattered on the marble floor.

Guests looked surprised at the flying glass, but merely stepped away from the mess and continued with their pointless conversations. Gabrielle, having recently rid herself of the angry, drunk reporter, was nearest the broom closet and retrieved a broom, dustpan, and towel.

She was on her knees with the towel when the roach made a second appearance, this time scurrying onto the towel and across her fingers. The windows endured a second sound test as poor Gabrielle leapt to her feet and flung away the towel.

The towel landed in a potted plant and that might have been the end of it, except that Glib was standing behind Gabrielle when she leaped back and the ensuing collision was fit for Hollywood.

_Thump. Kwack. Furmph. _

Gabrielle and Glib were on a heap in the floor. The skewer of broccoli with cheese in Glib's hand went soaring through the air, landing in Mrs. Egley's hair.

_Whack. Shatter._

Mrs. Egley, surprised, whirled around, knocking elbows with Mr. Martin and his wine glass. Crystal shattered.

_Eeep! Thump. Ooph! Crash._

Lucille, her white evening gown stained with red wine, jumped back in horror, right into Rick the reporter, who, being entirely too tipsy to catch his balance, flew backwards into the cheese fountain. An avalanche of cheese cascaded onto the marble as the table toppled.

Rosa, still recovering from her harrowing experience with the cockroach, slipped in the cheese while rushing to warn Don the head chef of the catastrophe unfolding before her eyes. She landed in a mess of yellow goo, accidentally bringing two guests with her in her wild struggle to remain upright.

As Mrs. Diamond ran to find her husband, her heel broke and she went flying in an unglorified array of satin and hairspray. Mr. Martin, ever the gentleman, attempted to catch her before she hit the ground, slipped in a puddle of club soda and landed them both on the floor in a heap. Rick the reporter, meanwhile, was scrambling to his feet. He was a bit dazed and still more than a bit drunk. He tripped over a prone party guest, and in an attempt to keep his footing, grabbed a hold of the nearest available object, which just happened to be the bottom of the 50x100 ft banner depicting an underprivileged race horse being cared for by Hilda P. Chatton. With a loud, resounding _Riiippp _the banner came fluttering down like a flag of surrender, lying to rest over a third of the party guests.

The ballroom was silent for several seconds.

Don the head chef peeked out of the kitchens and wisely decided to stay where he was. Don the hotel manager peeked in the doors and decided to go make a phone call to his insurance company. The cockroach decided to make a home in the potted plant and retire from traveling.

Gabrielle stood up slowly, Glib beside her, and decided to search out some fresh air before someone told her to clean up the mess. Glib thought that an excellent idea (though cleaning was not her responsibility) and followed her. Hadassah dipped another strawberry in the chocolate fountain and went to check on her Winebago.

Rick witnessed with haziness the three females leaving the room. His intuitive sense of paranoia kicked in immediately, buzzing the back of his skull like the sixth sense of a superhero (he often thought of it as such). With very heroic theatrics, he jumped to his feet and chased after the three females who were, in his mind, no doubt fleeing the scene.

(Please keep in mind that Rick is quite drunk at this point. Alcohol has always had a latent effect on his body and the knock to the head he received when falling into the cheese fountain didn't help matters much.)

Luckily for the three females, the hotel's layout is very complicated, especially for a man with a bit too much alcohol coursing through his system. So while Glib, Gabrielle, and Hadassah found their way into the cool night air, Rick the reporter only found himself quite lost in the royal blue corridors.

_Tuesday, 9:37 p.m._

The ancient oak stood proudly in all of its majestic (if mildly scarred) glory. Its branches stretched to the sky like thick, reaching arms. They might have been reaching for the stars, had the stars been visible behind the layers of smog and lights that the city issued. The hotel rested on a hill a half-mile above and beyond the city limits, but, despite their noble attempts, the stars remained masked.

Gabrielle was the first to notice the scarf in the branches above. The three women were in the process of introductions, mild commentary on the catastrophe indoors, and the importance of hiring competent exterminators when Gabrielle looked up and saw the article waving at her daintily in the breeze, just as yellow and petite as her acclaimed lemon squares.

She pointed up.

"Huh. Look at that." It was a very simple statement, because there is not much to be said about a scarf in a tree (if there is anything to be said at all), but those four words instigated something fantastic. And now it is that we come to the heart of this story. The climax, the denouement, the very purpose of the narrative—the climbing of the tree.

"Oh, that's mine," said Hadassah, and they all stared for a few seconds longer.

"Looks like it's pretty tangled," Glib commented.

"I guess the only way to get it is to climb the tree," Hadassah said at length. She couldn't have known that such a comment would instigate such results as would soon follow. She couldn't have known that her words would become the medium in which exceptionality found triumph over mediocrity, the fire with which unorthodoxy blazed its trail. She was just stating the obvious.

"I'll climb it," volunteered Gabrielle immediately. She couldn't remember the last time she'd climbed a tree. Before she'd joined the forces of the working world, she climbed trees everyday. But after a long day on her feet surrounded by hot ovens and covered in flour, she was too tired to hang up her coat, much less climb a tree.

The bright scarf in the huge oak was like a divine sign.

"Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that," Hadassah said quickly. "It's really high up there."

"No, really, it's fine," Gabrielle was already pulling herself onto the first branch. She wasn't one to ignore divine signs, especially when they included the climbing of trees.

At this point in time, Rick the reporter stumbled out of the hotel—dazed and utterly confused (a combination of alcohol, the nasty bump to the head, his inherent paranoia, and a bit of dementia on his mother's side.)

"Fleeing the scene of the crime, eh?" he cried. He had never before used the word "eh" out loud. It had always been a goal of his, for the true writer could weave it into conversation with such grace—but no human could ever plausibly use it aloud. Too bad his achievement would not be remembered come morning.

"Just getting my scarf down from the tree," Hadassah said with forced cheeriness, edging herself and Glib around the tree and away from the weaving lunatic.

"What did you call me?" wailed Rick.

"You're drunk," said Glib, feeling very fed up. They were having a lovely adventure with this tree and now he was starting to ruin everything.

"I believe in the Constitution!" Rick cried. In his fumbling mind, that had everything to do with what had just been said. "What, are you communists?"

"Wow," commented Gabrielle as she performed some tricky maneuvering to the next branch. "He really is drunk."

"I think he might have hit his head," Hadassah said worriedly.

"Quit plotting!" Rick commanded, stumbling closer. "I know your kind, all the same!"

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hadassah asked. She wasn't offended. On the one hand, she really wanted to know what he meant. On the other, she wanted to keep him distracted and in one place—not moving closer to them.

"You're a terrorist aren't you? This was all an elaborate scheme. You're a suicide bomber trying to blow up the hotel and you hit a tree instead."

Even Gabrielle, dangling from a branch, stopped and stared.

"I was going to blow up the hotel…with a Winebago?" Hadassah said bewilderedly.

"I knew it!" Rick declared triumphantly. "I knew it, eh. Knew it all along. This will win the Pulitzer. Eh."

"I'm feeling…unsafe," Glib said. The man was mad. And drunk. Both combined made for a precarious situation. "Maybe we should go inside."

"Well, we can't just leave Gabrielle in the tree," Hadassah said.

Glib looked up thoughtfully, and then down at her nice evening gown.

"Well, Jack climbed the beanstalk. Why can't we climb a tree?" she declared finally.

"Come on up," Gabrielle called. "The flora is fine."

So they climbed, leaving a raging Rick trapped on the ground.

Maybe you don't see the beauty of the picture. Three women in a tree—three different women with three different lives, who will probably never see each other again after this night, who will never know more about each other than names and faces and the spark of unorthodox exceptionality that united them all in the grand oak. It's a tableau of perfection, of the very stuff life is made of.

Gabrielle nestled in between two branches and remembered what it felt like to be high among the leaves, high above mediocrity. Glib examined the new tears and stains in her evening gown with a smug realization that she had managed to retain her loyalty to unorthodoxy, even in the face of something so "normal" as a Charity Ball. Hadassah just plucked her lemon yellow scarf from the branches and laughed at the night air, because such is life.

Rick the reporter went home, slept off his vodka, and awoke the next day to write a scathing article about the terrorist who tried to blow up the Diamond Charity Ball. He is still awaiting his Pulitzer.

* * *

_A/N--To the owners of our lovely heroines: Eh. My heart is all aflutter to hear your thoughts. Please don't leave me hanging..._


End file.
